Israel today

I’ve been on the verge of tears all day. They flowed this morning, a bit more a few hours later. Now again at dinner with my husband. There’s a lump in my throat, just won’t go away. Its hard to swallow. I have to put thoughts to paper, so here goes:

He was stabbed yesterday, a knife thrust in his back, piercing organs, severing blood vessels. How does that feel? Ok, tears rolling again. How does it feel to have a knife cut through muscle and bone… Does it hurt much?

Because as he was stabbed he instinctly whirled around, pulled out his pistol, started chasing the stabber, jumped a ledge, barreled into a glass door as he stumbled from the pain, then fired his gun. He hit his assailant, injuring him and dropping him to the ground. Its all on the video. I’ve seen it several times. There are cameras everywhere here. We need them exactly because of this. So we know what happened.

I cry. Ari Fuld was only 45 years old. He died of massive bleeding at the hospital. He had a wife. He had four children that look so sweet in the photos in the newspapers. Four little ones that no longer have their Abba. The lump in my throat is for them. For his family. For him. He won’t see them grow up.

I cry for his murderer. Only 17 years old. Seventeen, for fuck’s sake. I have a seventeen year old child at home! What makes a seventeen old throw his life away like that? Oh, its the occupation. Yeah, the occupation.

I hate the occupation. But you know what? Its OUR LAND! I cry because the Jewish people have been living on this land for over 3,000 years and how DARE they say we don’t have roots and connection and the right to be here.

I cry because Ari Fuld loved this land as much as I love it. God, do I love this land. I cry because he refused to compromise and share… and I cry because I AM willing to compromise and share. But our LOVE is equal. Was the same love. I still love. He loved. He’s no longer is able to.

I cry for the murderer’s father, who insisted his son was not interested in politics, only in school. Did he watch the Hamas facebook page propaganda encouraging stabbers to kill Israelis? Was he moved by Islamic Jihad videos calling for the murder of Jews? What pushes a seventeen year old to sneak a knife to a mall and stab a total stranger in the back. Oh, its the occupation.

I cry because Hamas and Islamic Jihad both praised the murder and called for more killings of my people.

I hate the occupation. How DARE we say they don’t have a right to this land? Muslims have been in these parts for over 1,300 years, empire after empire, in control, in charge, the bosses. Seriously, that’s a damn long time to completely disregard.

I cry for the murderer’s mother, who it appears approached some soldiers to report that her son was planning a terror attack. I cry for her. Had she come to them a bit sooner, maybe her son would not be laying on a hospital bed, headed to life in prison. He would have his life back. Alas. And if what she did is true, what courage she had to try to avert this attack. I cry for her.

I cry because those that claim the right to the land for over 3,000 years are COMPLETELY RIGHT! And those that claim the right to the land for over 1,300 years are COMPLETELY RIGHT! And what does one do? How can one side be right and the other side be right as well?? At the same time?!? That’s crazy.

I cry because I love our soldiers so much. My dad was a soldier, I was a soldier many years ago, my older daughter was a soldier and my seventeen year old will be joining the IDF soon. Very soon. Will she need neck coolers in the hot summer days? Who will give her one? Ari is gone.

I cry because I SO MUCH DISAGREED with Ari’s politics! But that does not give anyone the right to murder him. Never! I cry because even though I did not personally know him, I have friends who knew him and I have facebook friends who knew him. My people are hurting right now and that makes me sad. Because as a people we have been hardened just a bit more. We’ve suffered another trauma, deepening our national Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. We don’t get breaks between PTSD episodes. They’re constant.

I cry because the murderer’s family’s home will be destroyed soon. That’s the law. Their lives will be destroyed. They will suffer another trauma, deepening their national Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They don’t get breaks between PTSD episodes. They’re constant.

I cry because in one of the classes I’m taking for my Masters degree, we read the book Cataclysms by Dan Diner and are to write a paper about something that struck us in the book, and I chose to write about Diner’s explanation of the causes of the Armenian Genocide. You know, its not easy to research material about genocide. It wrings your heart, breaks it to pieces, over and over again. Mass killings and massacres previous to the 1915 Armenian Genocide: massacre of 500,000 Turkish speaking, Central Asian Khazak nomads by the Russians, deportations of Galician Jews, ethnic Germans, Baltic Jews, Greeks who lived too far in the interior, 1894 and 1896 massacres of thousands of Armenians, Greeks killing Muslim Turks, Turks killing Greeks, violent forced conversions of Muslim Bulgarians (Pomaks), Druze and Maronite massacres of each other in 1860, massacres of Cretans in 1866, Greek expulsions of hundreds of thousands of Muslims, revenge killings of Greeks… 1st Balkan War, 2nd Balkan War, Italo Turkish War, Russo Turkish War, Crimean War, Greko Turkish War. Oh my God. I can’t even count them anymore. How can I write this paper?

And you know what? I cried at dinner tonight because I know that if it were not for the amazingly strong Israeli Defense Forces, we the Jews in Israel would be a statistic just like those peoples I’m researching. Like what happened to us before there was an IDF. Before there was an Israel for us as a safehaven. There is NO DOUBT in my mind, that were it not for our strength and ability to defend ourselves, we would be another statistic, another genocide among many. We would be at the whim of those countries around us that would slash our throats or hit us with chemical weapons without blinking an eye. HAVE YOU HEARD WHAT HAPPENED TWO HOURS FROM MY HOME ACROSS THE SYRIAN BORDER?? Over 500,000 Syrians killed by Syrians. Thank God for the Israeli Defense Forces. And Ari loved our soldiers so. And I understand where he was coming from, because I love them too. And my seventeen year old will be a soldier soon. Tears flowing again…

And I cry because I hate the occupation. Because they have a right to a place of their own. Just like us. And we can live side by side in peace and security and work together to raise our children and prosper. But we don’t. We senselessly lose our loved ones. Both sides lose. Both sides hurt. Both sides are HARDENED every time there is violence, every time someone gets shot, someone gets killed, someone stabs, someone humiliates, someone loses their life.

I am fascinated with prehistoric archaeology and the Leopard Temple in the Uvda Valley, about an hour’s drive from Eilat, is one of my favorite sites. When I stand at this place, used by ancient peoples for 4,000 years (let me spell that out, four thousand years!) as a cultic sanctuary, from the Neolithic Age, (mid 6th millennium BCE) through the Chalcolitic to the Bronze Age, (mid 2nd millennium BCE), I can barely comprehend this time span of human spirituality. Wow. Just wow.

After an Israeli army tank on maneuvers in the Uvda Valley drove past some sand dunes and soldiers noticed strange formations on the ground, archaeologists excavated and cleaned the site in the early 1980’s. It consists of a courtyard, surrounded by a parallelogram-shaped, low, double wall, each side 12 meters long.

Parallelogram-shaped courtyard, lined with stones

One of the ancient altars, a pit lined with stones

In the courtyard were found four altars from different eras spanning 4,000 years, each one a shallow pit, dug into the ground and lined with stones. Using Carbon 14, the oldest carbonized remains were dated to about 7,500 years ago. Do you get that? People like you and me were here, in the middle of nowhere, bringing and sacrificing offerings to their gods, starting seven thousand five hundred years ago. Who were these people? Who were their gods? What did worshippers ask for? Why here?

To the western side of the courtyard we find what archaeologists dub the “Holy of Holies”, a reference of course, to the most sacred chamber in the Jewish Holy Temple in Jerusalem, where monotheistic Jews believed rested the essence of God. The “Holy of Holies” at the Leopards Temple is an elongated, rectangular, stone-surrounded enclosure that contains exactly 17 upright, unhewn stones. Archaeologists believed these stones represented gods or venerated ancestors.

Upright stones? This reminds me of one of the our most important Biblical stories about Jacob, one of our forefathers. Jacob left Beersheva and set out for Haran and on the way camped for the night. He took a stone and used it as a pillow. He dreamed about a stairway reaching to the heavens, with angels going up and down. At the top he saw God, who reiterated the promise He made to Jacob’s grandfather, Abraham, whereby his descendents would be numerous like the dust of the earth and will spread out far and wide, populating the land.

(Genesis 28:16-19) When Jacob awoke from his sleep, he thought, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.”He was afraid and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven.” Early the next morning Jacob took the stone he had placed under his head and set it up as a pillar and poured oil on top of it.

Jacob called the place where he erected an upright stone Beth El, the house (or place) of God.

The ‘Holy of Holies’ made from uncut stones and in the center are 17 standing stones representing gods

The act of placing an upright stone on holy ground, at the place where God or the gods reside, does not begin in the Hebrew Bible. It is as ancient as the Neolithic era, when worshippers erected cultic sites with standing stones on both sides of the Jordan Rift Valley, on the Golan Heights, in the Syrian Horan and in Jordan. Later civilizations such as the Nabateans also venerating upright stones, and worship at the megalithic Kaaba stone in Mecca precedes Islam.

Unhewn stones? Isn’t that a Jewish thing? God required Moses to build him an altar, explicitly only with stones untouched by iron. He says to Moses:

And if you make for Me an altar of stones, do not build it of hewn stones; for by wielding your sword upon them you have profaned them. (Exodus 20:22)

God demands uncut stones because He knows weapons of war are made of iron. He wants no tool that is used for war to be used to build his altar, his Temple. Greg Salisbury, in his article Have You Got the Stones to Make Peace? in the Jewish Exponent (Sept 4th, 2015), writes:

The prohibition against using an iron tool to shape the stones runs like a thread through ancient Jewish history. While invading Canaan, Joshua built “an altar of unhewn stone upon which no iron had been wielded” (Joshua 8:31). When Solomon built the First Temple, “only finished stones cut at the quarry were used, so that no hammer or ax or any iron tool was heard in the House while it was being built” (1 Kings 6:7). When Judah Maccabee and his band of brothers liberated Jerusalem in 164 BCE, “they took unhewn [whole] stones, as the law directs, and built a new altar like the former one” (1 Maccabees 4:47).

So no, uncut stones go way back. What I find absolutely titillating is that these desert people who built this sanctuary and worshiped in it long ago, had much in common with our Biblical forefathers and their stories.

Lets get back to the Leopard sanctuary. To the east of the courtyard we find what gave this archaeological site its name, a series of 16 animal figures outlined in the sand with stones pressed into the ground. The row of 16 creatures is about 15 meters long and depicts female leopards (so identified because of their raised tails) and one headless antelope. Archaeologists believe this ancient religious art installation represents the story of life and death, predator and prey, the cycle of life. The leopards, probably also representing goddesses of fertility, are all facing eastwards, towards the rising sun (life, new day, new beginnings) and the antelope is facing west (sunset, death, finality).

Sometime at the beginning of the agricultural revolution, about 10,000 years ago, ancient people began to settle down in small groups, plant crops, domesticate animals. They needed as much help as they could get as life was difficult, especially around the Fertile Crescent where much of their success depended on the amount of annual rain, the seasons and the climate. They began worshipping in some organized manner, first the Sun and Moon and stars, and then trees, mountains and what they perceived as powerful and wise animals. These gods were called upon to bless the crops, to provide rain and to keep away evil things.

On the small hill next to the Leopards Temple are the remains of circular grain threshing floors and a few structures used as living quarters. Historians believe that ancient farmers cultivated wheat and other grains here during the winter and used the water from flash floods to irrigate the crops. It is believed the farmers left after the harvest, only to return the next year for the next planting. Perhaps these farmers created the sanctuary to honor not only their gods but the powerful predators of the desert, the leopards. Were they asking them for divine help? For protection? For their blessing for a plentiful grain harvest? For ample rains in the high desert that would spill to the valley? Who were these people?

It was 50 years ago today in 1967, and we were living in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Now, I don’t know if what I am about to tell you is exactly the way it happened, or if it is the mish-mash of stories I heard and photos and family films I have seen, or if it is my inner child’s skewed memory of an event that shaped my life on the day I turned five.

We were part of a small community of Israeli families in this lovely East African nation that had just achieved its independence in 1963. My father had been sent there by the Israeli government as an Officer of the Israel Defense Forces and a fluent English speaking Electronics Engineer, and was put in charge of helping the nascent Tanzanian Police force design and manufacture their first transistor radios. He taught the Tanzanian police students engineering and electronics, and together they built these first locally made radios.

My father, Zvi Harrel (first row, second from the right ) with his class of graduates of the Tanzanian Police Academy

There were other Israeli families in Dar es Salaam at the time, each sent there to help the new African country with building infrastructure such as roads and construction projects, improving agricultural technology, business development, arms sales and my dad with his radios. Israel was desperately trying to make friends among newly independent nations and many Israeli specialists and advisers spent the 1960’s in Africa. Like us.

On the morning of my birthday, I eagerly waited for my friends to arrive at our home, excited about the presents I would receive and the fun time we would have playing in our sandbox and up in my tree house

As my friends started to arrive, the moms directed the kids towards the front yard and all the dads went inside. I clearly remember the inside that day, as my father had prepared it ‘for the party.’ From the Dar es Salaam police headquarters, he brought home what to me appeared to be humongous, gray machines with lots of black buttons and lights. I remember them being taller than me.

My five year old self, riding my bike in front of our house in Dar es Salaam

These huge radio transmitters were placed in the living room and as the fathers came in, they put on head phones and huddled quietly around them, listening intently to radio transmissions, waiting for the familiar two-word codes that meant you were needed in a national emergency. Israel was at war and Arab countries were already broadcasting that Egyptian forces had reached Tel Aviv. Israeli radio broadcasts were somber and eerily silent about events on the ground. I seem to remember the dads were smoking, which doesn’t surprise me because Israelis awaiting orders of whether to hop on a plane and join their military units to fight for the survival of their small country, always smoke. Its a thing, one of those unwritten rules. You fight for survival, you smoke.

Little did I know, but in the weeks before my birthday, there had been rising tension and increasing threats by Egypt, Syria and Jordan against little Israel. They had been amassing their armies on the borders, making death threats on the airwaves and the print media, and Egypt blocked the Straits of Tiran to Israeli shipping, itself an act of war. Israelis were worried. Very worried. War was looming and the only questions were when would it start and how would we survive.

Israelis had been preparing for an inevitable war with their Arab neighbors. Israelis living abroad, especially the men, had already packed a small suitcase and were anxiously awaiting the moment they would get the word from their reserve units to return and help defend the homeland. Everyone was on edge. So was my dad. And so were all the Israeli dads in Africa.

I learned later, that my parents decided to go on with preparations for my birthday party despite the tension and uncertainty and invited the whole Israeli community so we could all be together. A great excuse for moms and kids to play and the dads to huddle around the great big radio receivers and listen to the latest news from Israel.

As chance would have it, the war began at dawn on the very day of my fifth birthday, June 5th, 1967. My birthday party became the gathering place, the headquarters for all Israelis in Dar es Salaam as we eagerly awaited news from home.

It turned out that Israel, our little David of a country, defeated Goliath that week and in only six days destroyed the armies of Egypt, Syria and Jordan, soundly defeating them against all odds. Our fathers were not called up to join their units and after a week of fighting, Israelis breathed a sigh of relief.

However, the most amazing, exhilarating and important result of the Six Day War happened on June 7th, 1967, two days after my birthday. Israeli forces pushed the Jordanian army back, re-entered the Old City of Jerusalem, re-took the Jewish Quarter and once again, the Jewish people were able to touch and to pray at the Western Wall of the Temple Mount. Our eternal capital was again in our hands.

Today, May 24th, 2017, is a day of great joy in Israel, as we celebrate the 50th anniversary (according to the Hebrew calendar) of the re-unification of our capital. Thousands of Israeli Jews are celebrating in Jerusalem at this very moment and my heart is with them. I will leave it at that, as this is very complicated. But wow, it has been 50 years.

I felt the need to put pen to paper since I am emotionally very attached to the events of the Six Day War, as if I had played a part in that history. And I guess I did. After all, we share the same birthday.

A few months ago, I received a Facebook message that moved me to tears. A student of mine from 20 years back, 6th grade, tough neighborhood in Salinas, California, so long ago, a different life. She said she was glad she had finally found me because she wanted me to know what a difference I had made in her life, how I had influenced the life she lives today. Turns out that due to my planting the seed and encouraging her to play basketball, learn about history and other cultures, look forward towards college, she not only became the first in her family to graduate high school, she also graduated from college and then, hold on to your hats, law school! But wait, it gets better. She decided to forgo a prestigious for-profit law career to work in the public sector helping low income residents of public housing projects. I cried. A lot. My heart grew 3 sizes that day.

And that got me thinking. Who are the people that influenced and touched MY life in such a way that they made a real difference, affecting life-changing decisions ? Especially those people that don’t even know they made a difference. The thought of someone being out there, having inspired and changed my life and them not knowing about it has been gnawing at me ever since. Who?

And then, it happened. Bang! The Universe worked its mystery once again.

First, let me take you back to the best time of my youth, my army service in the Israeli Defense Forces. Although I had been born in Israel, I spent my childhood years abroad. I graduated from the American School in Lima, Peru, and unlike the rest of my classmates who went straight to college, I decided to fulfill my duty as an Israeli and complete my military service. I had always had an intense love for Israel, its history, its people, and the land.

So in 1980, I left my family back in Peru and headed to Israel to enlist in the IDF as a Lone Soldier (one without close family in Israel). Let me tell you, it was scary, but beyond that, it was exciting and a powerful experience. I became one of the first female Basic Training Instructors for male recruits, carried an M-16 and even got to parachute a few times. Yeah, it was quite amazing.

But the best part of this experience was what Israelis carry with them throughout their lives, the deep, enduring bonds, friendships and connections they make in the military. Serving in the Israeli Army cemented my bond with this land. Forever.

My best friend and fellow basic training instructor, Adeena

Yours truly, Sergeant Anat 1981

And being an impressionable young woman, one with a weakness for men in uniform (till today, may I add), one of the figures I most admired and remembered from my time as a Basic Training Instructor was the base Chief Sergeant Major, Shimon Deri. He was so proper, so fit, his boots always so spit shining perfect and so gorgeous! Take a look at the photos I took of him as we participated in the 1981 IDF Physical Fitness Competition. Do you blame me for being taken with him?

Sergeant Major Shimon Deri at our tent camp on the beach next to Wingate Physical Education and Sports Center

Yes, we played soccer on the beach

I think not.

I remember him clearly, how nervous I got around him, how he was the butt of many a joke because he was our commander after all, but we also deeply respected him. And the girls, well, we swooned.

I fulfilled my military service and in 1983 left Israel for the United States in order to study. The plan was to return to Israel after getting my degree, but life happened and I ended up staying in the US for a long time.

Over the years, I would reminisce about my military service days, my deep longing to be in Israel, the friends I left behind. I would pull out my photo album and cry as I looked over the pictures of the happiest time of my life.

And there was Shimon Deri, always front and center with his big smile. He was my father figure from Israel.

Spring forward 13 years, to November 4, 1995, to the day Yitzhak Rabin, one of my heroes, was assassinated in Tel Aviv. I was devastated and decided to watch the funeral live on CNN, from my home in Salinas, California. I stayed up all night as the funeral started at 3 a.m. Pacific Time and cried throughout. I was overwhelmed with grief, I felt such a deep sense of loss. I wanted so much to be there, but alas, here I was, sitting alone on the rug in front of my TV in Salinas, in the middle of the night.

Yitzhak Rabin’s funeral on November 6, 1995

And then, oh my god, I suddenly recognized him. Shimon Deri! There he was for a fleeting moment, in uniform, on the screen, leading the Honor Guard at the Rabin funeral!! I immediately recognized him, jumped up screaming… there he was, representing ME at the funeral, someone I knew was THAT close to Rabin, right there next to him!

There he is, facing the camera in the back, wearing a black beret

Shimon Deri, with his back to the screen in the right side corner, black beret, walking past the Honor Guard

Apparently, my favorite IDF Chief Sergeant Major had stayed in the army, rose among the ranks and was now in a position to lead the Honor Guard at this State Funeral. I was overjoyed to see him. And yes, it made me cry even more. What more, seeing him there, at the very place I wanted to be, bonded me with Shimon and with Israel and with Rabin and with my people even more. And he didn’t even know.

It took me a full 28 years to finally come home to Israel. I moved back 6 years ago and my heart is finally at peace. Now I tear up because of the joy I feel at having returned. Yes, I know, I’m a basket case.

Today, I am a tour guide in Israel. I often take my tourists to the very place where Rabin was assassinated in Tel Aviv. I tell Rabin’s story, my personal connection to the story, how this tragic event affected my people and my country and how we have yet to recover.

And Shimon? He was still in my album. Until a couple of weeks ago, when the Universe spoke to me once again.

Every Independence Day since I moved back to Israel, I have either participated in or attended our kibbutz celebration out on the grass, with songs and speeches and dancing and fireworks. Just lovely. This year, my knee was aching, I was a bit tired and decided that this time I would watch the national festivities on TV.

Final practice for the flag bearing parade, opening Independence Day celebrations (Times of Israel)

Every year at this time, as Israel transitions from the somber remembrance of Memorial Day for the Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror to the joyous celebration of our Independence, we hold the main, national ceremony on top of Mt. Herzl, next to the grave of Theodore Herzl, the visionary who foresaw the creation of this country. This year I felt the need to see the flag-bearing parade, the beautifully executed marching formations, to see some pomp and circumstance which is typically lacking and downplayed in our military. So a few minutes before the opening of the ceremony, I parked myself in front of the television set.

And, at precisely 7:45 p.m., the announcer came on:

” Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the opening of our Independence Day celebrations in Jerusalem. And this year, in his debut as the new flag-bearing ceremony director, please welcome Lieutenant Colonel Shimon Deri.”

I, of course, jumped out of my skin. ” What?!? OMG, OMG!” And there he was, in full dress uniform, so polished and straight and proper and so gallant, my Shimon, marching towards the VIP box.

Shimon Deri in his new role

I cannot express to you my joy and surprise at how the Universe brought me here, to this very moment, to see Shimon Deri in his debut, right there on national television.

Tears streaming down my face, I immediately picked up the phone and dialed.

Me: Adeena!! (my best friend from the Shimon days, pictured above) What are you doing RIGHT NOW?

Adeena: Cooking (figures… I’m going out of my mind with joy and excitement and she’s cooking)

Me: Turn on your TV! Do you know who is the new director of the flag ceremony at Mt. Herzl???

Adeena: Shimon Deri? (smart cookie she is, this Adeena)

So there you have it. How I ended up sitting on my couch in Israel, in front of the TV to witness as one of the anchors of my life, one of my inspirations, debuted right there on national television in one of the most respected and beloved roles in our military… how, how does that happen?

Looking good

And he did great! It was a superb parade, precise, elegant and very professionally done. Just like the Shimon I remember. Congratulations, sir. Proud to have served under you. And thank you for all you meant to me. Thank you.